


The Catching of the Proverbial Snitch

by LightofEvolution



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-09-06 08:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16828483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightofEvolution/pseuds/LightofEvolution
Summary: Hermione and Draco meet. There's the Qudditch World Cup and some back and forth. But does anyone catch the proverbial Snitch in the end? Dramione, EWE. This story is a gift for and prompted by sleepygrimm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepygrimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepygrimm/gifts).



> Hi readers! I am back with another story. I know I should work on the third part of Shared, but I can't do that with this lovely, charming, and so tempting prompt in my head (it's not forgotten, promised). This entire story is a gift for sleepygrimm, who prompted me. 
> 
> Although, this wouldn't be possible with a beta like niffizzle who invested so much time to make this so much better. THANK YOU! All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Oh, I almost forgot - this isn't mine and no (Daily) Prophit is made.

"HERMIONE!"

Hermione cringed at the sound of her name being shouted over the relatively quiet mass of people that had gathered in the Three Broomstick. Almost all eyes were stuck on a big screen, specifically transfigured for this event, on one of the walls where the German Minister für Magiebeteiligte Vorgänge und Unvorhergesehenes (or as the English translation read at the bottom of the screen: Minister for Magic-Involving Occurrences and Unforeseen Events) spoke his introductory words and greetings for the finale of the Quidditch World Cup. This year, it was a match of epic proportions, seeing as France was playing against England on German soil.

Hermione tried to weasel her way through the crowd, stopping again and again to hug someone or simply say hello. It seemed as if her entire year from Hogwarts had also decided to come there tonight, which was surprising because some of them she hadn't seen in years. Then again, even Hermione recognised that this sporting event was one of a kind.

"Hurry up, Hermione, or you'll miss half the game!" Ginny, who had been the one shouting for her, pulled her closer by her sleeve as soon she was close enough. Her best female friend didn't speak any more words of greeting, nor did Harry, Seamus, or Dean who were all huddled around one table. They were too captivated by the screen to say anything else, but at least someone pushed a butterbeer into her hands.

Hermione didn't really mind. Even though she wasn't a real fangirl, she thoroughly enjoyed watching the game and loved the energetic atmosphere of such events. And, really, the man and women sweeping over the screen, pressed to their high speed brooms, were a sight to behold. Broomstick magic was complicated, and it always fascinated Hermione to see it at work, actively defying the laws of physics and rationality. The aim with the cubs, Quaffles, and Bludgers was something she'd never possess, that much she could admit (though she wasn't as bad at flying as most thought her to be).

As expected, the English team was in top form, but the French team fought as hard as their adversaries. And so as the game it was a whirlwind of blue, red, and white flying across the screen with the English commentator barely keeping up with the fast paced match.

After nearly an hour, Hermione climbed from the booth their table was in, intent to fetch another drink that wasn't butterbeer. It wasn't so easy considering that Ginny had started to snog Harry enthusiastically and rather indecently because the English had just reclaimed the lead. Once Hermione had successfully maneuvered around that, she almost crashed into Bill and Fleur Weasley, the latter cursing in rapid French about her team lagging behind while her smiling husband stroked her back consolingly. Hermione chuckled to herself, knowing the blonde witch was nothing like the docile doll so many judged her to be by her appearance.

Hermione once again found herself pushing through the crowd, only this time, no one bothered to stop her, everyone much too consumed by the game. When she reached the bar, she waved her hand to get someone's attention.

"Hi," she said to the man behind the bar.

He was a few years younger than her, probably a student who occasionally helped out when the pub expected more customers than usual. Yet despite her call for him, he either ignored Hermione or didn't hear her. Considering he was currently staring into some witch's decolletè, she surmised the first reason.

"Hey! I'd like to order something!"

No reaction.

She was about to huff and stomp when a drawling voice spoke, "Oh my, is this pub so popular now that it can risk not serving Hermione Granger, War Heroine?"

The brunette threw her head around and only needed a split second to identify the person who had loudly said the sarcastic words and now winked at her, clearly amused at how the barkeeper all but shrieked and hastened over to them.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Granger, I got distracted," the barkeeper said before Hermione could respond to the question.

She tore her eyes away from the blond wizard next to her. "One could say that," she spat at the frazzled younger man. Even though she probably shouldn't, she enjoyed how he reddened at her chastising.

"Whatever you order, it's on the house," he said placatorily.

Now that she could accept. "In that case, two of your best whiskeys neat, please. And don't fool me, I know what a good whiskey tastes like."

The barkeeper flitted away to pour the ordered beverages, and Hermione turned her attention back to the wizard next to her. "My, my, my. Draco. This is truly a surprise."

"It is. And what happened to 'Malfoy'?" He gave her a relaxed smile and slightly leaned in closer to her. He seemed to be a fraction out of place with his perfectly fitting black slacks and his steel blue long sleeved shirt - and Hermione asked herself why she even noticed that.

She smiled back, the surrounding atmosphere seeping into her, making her a bit more open than usual she concluded. "I figured you so bravely defending my honor would gain you the privilege of being called by your first name."

The barkeeper placed two tumblers with generous pours of whiskey in front of Hermione and hurried away again.

"Well then, _Hermione._ " Smiling again, Draco took the whiskey Hermione had offered him and inclined his head in a toast. "To progress."

"Progress?"

"I consider us sitting at a bar and having a drink is quite the sign of progress, isn't it?" He gestured at the two of them who, at some point, had moved to sit on barstools without Hermione's conscious acknowledgment.

Hermione felt her lips curl into another broad, honest, if a bit sardonic smile, for she really saw the humour in the current situation. "Yes, absolutely, at least a small one. Just wait, in an hour you're going to order a mobile and ask me how to operate it." She clinked her glass against his.

Without missing a beat, Draco pulled a mobile from his pocket, obviously enjoying the flabbergasted expression on Hermione's face. "It's brand new, so I don't know much about it yet…"

Helplessly, she threw her head back and laughed loudly. "This is just too good!" she admitted.

Loud cheering around them brought them back to the excitement of the Quidditch game. Obviously, an English Chaser had scored again.

"Who are you betting on?" Draco asked conversationally, still leaning against the bar as if it was totally normal for him to converse with Hermione on a Saturday evening in a pub.

"That's a joke, right?" she asked back, incredulously. "I might not be an expert on the sport, but I _am_ English!"

"So am I, but my family history goes back to France," Draco retorted, wriggling his nose in an exaggerated snobbish manner.

"I know, William the Conqueror and all."

He threw her a curious glance and she blushed. "You know that?"

"Yes… I am quite fascinated by wizarding family history after spending so many hours in Grimmauld Place."

Draco continued to scrutinize her. "You're living with Potter?"

She snorted and drowned the rest of her whiskey. "Yes, he and Ron are both my roommates. And Ginny and little James are all there, and Ron's ever changing girlfriends. We are a community. Make love, not war."

"You're kidding." The wizard's grey eyes blinked at her, and the way they caught the dim lights in the pub rather becomingly was something she'd rather not ponder now.

"No, _Draco_. I've lived in a tent with the boys, and that was so nice I didn't want to give it up." She fought a girlish giggle but was unsuccessful at it. Finally, she broke. "Okay, fine. That wasn't exactly the truth, and I don't really live with them. But Ron snores like a hippogriff, and Harry is exceptionally neat, just not in the kitchen. Living with them would drive me spare. And I love Ginny and James, but the witch can be a bit much and that baby even more so."

"Well, I'm still living in Malfoy Manor." With a practised hand movement, he caught the attention of the barkeeper and ordered two more whiskeys, making Hermione believe the man had hovered nearby.

Hermione stopped laughing and looked at his perfectly straight face.

"The peacocks need company."

Then, at her bewildered expression of trying to find out if he was joking or not, his lips slowly unfurled into a cheeky grin.

" _Huh,"_ Hermione's mind supplied. He was much more handsome like this than the seven years he spent sneering at Hogwarts, wasn't he? "I think I need another drink to accept that Draco Malfoy can be funny."

"This one is on me," he said and handed her the freshly arrived beverages.

Plenty of loudly emitted _Booooo!_ sounds made Hermione aware that a Quidditch finale was still going on, and the supporters of the English team must have thought they had been treated unfairly by the referee, even though the replay of the scene in question clearly showed that Alicia Spinnet had indeed shoved Babette Abrams from her broom quite rudely.

"So who of the players are you going to snatch away this time?" came a curious voice from Hermione's side.

"What?"

"Well, I can remember you dating the Bulgarian Seeker after one World Cup," Draco explained to her surprise.

"How can you remember that? I thought you were too busy sticking your tongue into Pansy's mouth and sneering at Harry that year."

He winced at her words, the memory clearly unpleasant. "You forgot to add being an idiotic blood supremacist."

"Oh, sorry. I thought that was a given character description for you," Hermione deadpanned and for a moment, she thought she had gone to far. But then, Draco gave a low, rumbling laugh, a sound she had never heard until this day. It was actually very pleasant.

When the game paused for a break, the tension in the room grew palpable. No wonder, the score stood 250:260 for England now, but new rules demanded the players take a break for thirty minutes after two hours into the game.

Draco's proximity, the alcohol in their system, and the atmosphere of the evening made Hermione's mood vibrant and giddy, and she felt fantastic, if a bit devious because she was exchanging innocently flirty words and honest conversation with Draco Malfoy. She wasn't alone with him, of course. Now that everyone wasn't totally immersed in the game, there were other people for her to talk with. She exchanged mock flirting with Seamus which had Dean, his husband, laughing himself silly over. She shared a drink with Ginny, without alcohol on the red-heads side because she was still nursing her firstborn. She cuddled into Harry's side, enjoying his brotherly attention.

But always she returned to Draco's side. It wasn't a conscious decision. Instead, she simply found herself standing next to him when they were both talking to Bill about his latest ideas on the curse-breaking of early cultures. Or when he wordlessly handed her a new drink just as soon as she discovered hers was empty. Or when she saw him avidly listening to Dean as he explained the differences between Quidditch and football while she happened to discuss Seamus' cooperation with Weasleys Wizard Wheezes for some extravagant fireworks.

Really, it was all a coincidence.

Or magnetism.

But that was something she avoided pondering actively, only partially because Marcus Mullens closed his hands around the Golden Snitch in this very moment.

England had won the World Cup!

Announcing the fall of Voldemort was nothing compared to what happened in the pub after that.

The atmosphere was ecstatic, and it was so loud, Hermione couldn't even hear her own squeals. Everyone was hugging, people were toasting, and soon, some even started singing loud hymnes in honor of the national team.

And Hermione was in the middle of it all. After hugging and kissing Harry, Ginny, Seamus, and Dean on the cheeks, she turned to Draco. He was looking at her with a somewhat shy and sheepish grin. Throwing all caution into the wind, she stepped into his outstretched arms and was immediately engulfed in his arms which, she noticed, fit around her perfectly. She leaned back to give him, like she had done with all the others, a kiss on the cheek and felt bold doing so.

But at that same moment, Draco turned his head, probably to say something to her.

And their lips met in the middle.

They both froze, and the whole moment seemed to stop the world's spin on its axis, but then she relaxed. His lips were soft and warm, and she swore she could hear him making a happy noise in the back of his throat, but that was hard to say with all the noise around them.

She felt a happy emotion bubbling up and gave a small giggle she wasn't entirely proud of.

Then, the moment was over, and they pulled away. Draco's arms stay around here, and she wanted to say something, anything, but she couldn't find the proper words.

The blond, who blinked rapidly a few times, struggled a bit, but opened his mouth to utter something when Harry shouted in her ear, "Hermione, you come with us! Sean and Deamus want to continue the party at their house. It's too crowded here and they have a pool! Can you believe it? A pool!"

Hermione dragged her gaze away from Draco and shouted back, "You are drunk, Harry!"

"Maybe. Probably," her best friend actually giggled.

She looked at Draco apologetically. "I'm sorry! I think I should go with them. Better keep Drunken Chosen One out of the public, right?"

Draco didn't seem perturbed. Instead, he merely grinned again.

She wanted to give him a proper goodbye, perhaps mention how nice the evening had been, but before either of them could say another word, Hermione got dragged away by The Saviour of the Wizarding World Who was About to Get a Good Scolding When He Was Sober Again. The amused (and adorably handsome) flicker in his eyes when Harry pulled her away made her want to shout how much she enjoyed watching the game with him and, frankly, the too brief kiss.

Hours later, when she came home after a hilarious time at Dean and Seamus' house, she reached into her pocket and found a napkin in her summer coat with something scribbled on it. Some numbers and the words:

" _I hope this is my phone number?"_

And a ridiculously bad sketch of a peacock.


	2. Chapter 2

Why, oh why had she agreed to go on a date with Terry Boot on a Sunday at 10 o’clock? She had felt flattered, of course, that the handsome Healer had asked her out after running into her a few times at St Mungo’s. 

This wasn’t their first date. About a week ago they had met for a coffee, and it had been… nice. Safe. Comfortable. Easy. And so she had been looking forward to meeting him again, especially since he had so empathetically suggested an antique book market. 

But then the Quidditch World Cup finale had happened. Or rather, Draco Malfoy had happened. And with him, a certain melancholy and unsettling gut feeling that their evening had ended too abruptly. 

Hermione sighed to herself. She was a rational person and knew there was no reason to cry over spilled pumpkin juice. And she wasn’t the type of witch who threw away a perfectly good option for a potential partner after one fleeting moment… evening with a different man. 

_ No, _ she thought, emphasising this conclusion with a stomp that resulted in her foot finally getting into her boot. She wanted to give Terry a real chance, and she wouldn’t waste another second on intriguing smiles and bottomless grey eyes. Of course, she’d banned every thought about how his lips had felt against hers and how inviting he had smelled. Obviously. 

After all, she wouldn’t have to jump into a marriage contract until noon, wouldn’t she? And who knew when she would meet Draco again? If ever.

* * *

“Seriously, Draco! A blonde on Friday and a brunette on Saturday?” Pansy, casually reclining in one of the comfortable armchairs in the breakfast salon, pointed at the latest edition of the  _ Daily Prophet _ . “You’re either very bad in bed, or the girls are standing in line to have a go at you.” She casually sipped her morning tea. Even if it was nearing noon, but… pureblood elite, eh?

“You of all witches should know that, shouldn’t you?” Draco asked arrogantly. He lowered himself into the chair opposite the dark-haired witch and reached for the strong coffee that always waited for him.

But Pansy remained unaffected and only scoffed good-naturedly. “So you didn’t improve since our mutual first time? Oh, Merlin, then it must be the money that attracts all the witches!” 

Draco chuckled, pleased by their comfortable banter.

His relationship with Pansy had been easy, but nowadays, he loved her like a sister, the fumbling tries at sex long forgotten. His mother treated her like the daughter she never had, something Pansy appreciated, having lost her own mother during the war. Pansy was engaged to Anthony Goldstein, who, like Narcissa and Draco, had given the young witch the stability, reliability, and love that she craved so desperately but had been raised too proud to admit. 

They often met over late breakfast on Sundays, which was the only occasion Draco set foot in Malfoy Manor. Because, obviously, Draco didn’t live in his ancestral home - too many bad memories. He knew he’d go back to permanently living there one day, but not yet or even in the next few years. 

As if on cue, Narcissa breezily walked into the room. “Though,” she interrupted her words by kissing the two on the cheeks, “Pansy  _ is _ right. Two witches in one weekend is a bit much.” 

Draco scowled and defensively said, “And since when do you take anything written in this paper for true?”

“Never. But these photos look pretty convincing.” Narcissa gestured to the newspaper with her perfectly manicured hand.

“I was only on a date with the blonde,” Draco admitted and added suggestively, to annoy the two witches, “And she even was quite decent company afterwards.” 

Pansy snorted, causing Narcissa to glare disapprovingly at the plebeian noise. “Not decent enough to invite her to breakfast on Saturday, I guess,” quipped the younger witch. Draco shrugged as an answer, and Pansy continued, “So who was the brunette then?”

He looked closer at the photograph. It showed him and a woman he knew was Hermione Granger hugging, and Draco was relieved that the photographer had captured these seconds and not the moments following. As it were, the reader could only see his face; it was rather blurred, but with his hair, he was still instantly recognisable. The only things one could see from the woman were her brunette hair and her rather perfect bum, even more accentuated as she stood on tiptoes. 

How hadn’t he noticed that yesterday? Oh. Right. He had actually enjoyed talking. 

Pansy still had her smug “Admit you can’t Slyther-out of this” expression. 

He consciously displayed a triumphant half-smirk. “The other one was taken during the World Cup finale at the Three Broomstick. It was only a hug in the excitement of the team’s victory. The press was out for gossip.”

Pansy didn’t seem to buy it. “Since when do you ‘hug’?” 

It was true. When engaging with his usual social circles, he never hugged. It was either a kiss on the cheek or the hand for witches or a firm handshake or curt nod for the wizards since lifting hats had become old-fashioned even in the wizarding world. 

“Since Mother deemed it necessary to hire a ‘public relations’ agent, namely Daphne Greengrass,” Draco explained. That was only a partial lie. It was true that said public relations expert had advised him to ‘relax his posture’ and ‘open up’ to show wizarding society how much he had changed. In the same conversation, she had also mentioned that the conception of the Malfoy family would profit from contact with ‘liberal’ characters. But that hadn’t been the reason Draco had talked to Hermione yesterday. No, she had simply intrigued him, her vibrant persona calling him to interact with her. 

“And that necessity wouldn’t have risen, had you not deemed it appropriate to be, as the younger generation calls it, on the ‘dating scene’ for so long,” Narcissa chided him. Basically, she told him to keep it in his pants in pureblood speak. “I really think it’s time for you to-”

“-Settle down, marry a vapid pureblood princess, produce an heir, and grow into my designated role as the head of the family?” Draco finished with what he expected her to say.

Narcissa gave him a levelling stare that reminded him too much of his childhood days when he had ‘accidentally’ turned his father’s peacocks a bright, Hufflepuff yellow. 

“To find a witch that has the brain and the will to put up with your uniqueness, my dearest son,” she continued primly. “It’s very easy to find a woman that looks good on your arm, even in your bed.” 

Draco flinched. Even at almost thirty, he wasn’t keen on hearing his mother talking about what went on in his bedroom. 

“But it is a hundred times more difficult to find one that holds your heart and mind.” 

As if she hadn’t just unleashed her most sincere speech to him in a decade, Narcissa dropped the subject and started a conversation with Pansy about the newest designer store on Diagon Alley.

* * *

Often, Draco grabbed his broom after the late breakfast at the Manor, sometimes meeting with Theo, Blaise, or some colleagues for a round of Quidditch, but not today. The previous evening still very fresh on his mind, he Apparated to the antique book market Dean Thomas had told him about. It wasn’t a secret Draco was well-read, but only a few of his friends knew he read as much in his free time as a certain brunette bookworm. And such addictions had to be fed.

As soon as he had solid ground under his feet, he breathed in deeply. The scent of parchment and old paper filled his nostrils and tickled his brain. Immediately, Draco knew it had been the right decision to come here.

About an hour later and several Galleons poorer (not that it mattered to him), the blond wizard was deeply engrossed in a tome from the late 19th century about the history of household charms, when a tinkling laughter from somewhere nearby gave him a severe sense of déjà vu from last night.

He whipped his head around so fast he heard a faint cracking in his neck, but he couldn’t see the owner of the laugh anywhere. Was he going crazy? Had this one encounter really messed him up?

“No, really? He said he slipped and ‘fell’ on his wand?”

There, again! 

But this time, he was sure. Hermione Granger was somewhere near him. He was just about to call out for her when he heard a second voice from behind a huge stack of books. 

“Yes, really! And the next time, he said it was a charms accident that his wand ended up in his-” The unmistakably male voice trailed off suggestively and Hermione giggled at the bloke’s words. She had giggled yesterday, too, and it had been an adorable sound. 

Not in that moment and not even years later could Draco explain what he did next.

He ducked.

He ducked behind the stack of books and squinted around the corner.

And even though he couldn’t see who was standing beside her, he caught a brief glimpse if Hermione.

As to be expected, she had her arms full of books and her hair was in a complete disarray. But why was she smiling so broadly? At whom? 

Whoever it was, he resumed talking, although he sounded unsure. “If you’re interested in medi-magical accidents, I saw a book about that a few minutes ago.” 

Draco nearly scoffed. Of course, Hermione Granger was interested in such a book. She had probably seen Potter and Weasley going through half of those listed in it. 

“Sounds fascinating. But after that, we could, well... you see, it’s almost two, and I am getting a bit hungry.”

Draco felt something cold dropping in his stomach. Did he have one coffee too many at the Manor?

“Yes, me too,” Male Voice answered. “First, we’ll find that book, and then you can let me carry your books and take you to that nice restaurant just a few minutes from here?”

The mass in Draco’s stomach solidified, and he could just barely hear Hermione calmly explain how she didn’t need someone carrying her books because she had her recently Ministry-approved extended bag with her. Then, Hermione and Male Voice were gone.

Draco, proud Malfoy he was, waited crouched behind a stack of books until he heard them at the register before he left his hideout. Almost automatically, he bought the book on household charms and Apparated back to his spacious London townhouse, where he carefully stacked his purchases on his bookshelves because, naturally, his library was in alphabetical and topical order. And all the while, the same set of thoughts circled in his head: why did the idea of Hermione meeting some wizard at a book market irritate him so much? It wasn’t as if he had spend the night with her or had her sign a betrothal contract. They hadn’t even really kissed. Yet he still felt a bit disappointed that she had met another man the next day. He knew that it was only his prat-istical ego talking, but somehow, he felt like fate had pranked him. 

* * *

**_The next Saturday_ **

Ginny Potter had a baby. 

And as cute as Hermione found little James, she had met with his  _ mother  _ for brunch, not the baby.

As she had grown accustomed to since the witch had gotten pregnant, Hermione tried to endure Ginny’s first sixty minutes of pure baby talk as patiently as she could because she understood what a huge portion of Ginny’s life the little boy now occupied. Though, this time, her mental absence must have shown, for Ginny had somehow changed the topic slightly.

“The best thing about nursing are the breasts! Once you get beyond this sore nipple state, they’re just full and soft, and Harry can’t leave his grabby hands off of me.”

“Merlin, Ginny! I don’t want to hear that!” Hermione perked up, grimacing.

“What? I’m just encouraging you to go exclusive with Whoever so you can start making babies yourself! What stops you?” Ginny threw her hands up in a manner that reminded Hermione too much of Molly. 

“First of all, the nipple talk doesn’t make bearing children more attractive. And what holds me off is the idea of a parasite growing inside my uterus, plus the fact that said uterus has been probably cursed one too many times, and you know that.” The last bit she mumbled more to herself, “Not to mention that while a man is only necessary for that initial act, one would be nice to have around permanently.”

Ginny’s expression changed from teasing to sad in a matter of seconds. Hermione hated to disillusion her best female friend so harshly, but the redhead knew that Hermione’s supposed infertility had been one of the reasons she and Ron had broken up. It had devastated them, and Hermione was glad they had reconciled their friendship. 

She had coped so well on the outside that Ginny forgot most of the times, but Hermione was well aware that her issues could be a hindrance in a possible future relationship. Though, chances were Muggle technology could help her.

Hermione touched Ginny’s hand over the table. “It’s okay, Gin. Really. Let’s just talk about something else, alright?”

Relief brightened her friend’s face again. “Like your date with Healer Boot on Sunday? How was it?”

“It was very nice. Perfect, actually. Every mother-in-law’s dream,” Hermione reported evenly. 

“Do I hear a ’but’ coming? Didn’t he check your tonsils properly?”

Just when Hermione was about to answer to Ginny’s question, she saw something blond in the corner of her eye. A quick look to the left told her it was an unmistakably platinum blond haired head and its owner was just entering the café.

There was no rational explanation for what she did next.

She ducked under the table.

“Hermione? What the heck?” Ginny asked from above, obviously confused.

“I… lost-” she mumbled something incoherently, “Yes. Under the table. And I can’t find it!” What? She was called Brightest Witch of Her Age, and  _ that _ was all she could come up with? She hadn’t even had enough time to see if he had come alone! And would she care if he had? This was so confusing.

Ginny obviously thought the same, for she now peeked under the table. “What, your dignity?” She took in her flustered friend’s expression and asked, “What happened?” 

“Ferret.” Hermione almost rolled her eyes at herself for the stupidity of her answer.

“Hermione, I love you like my sister, but the ‘parasite who escaped from my womb’ took all my Weasley patience with him. So try and make some sense.” 

“Draco Malfoy… is he still there?”

Ginny peaked back over the table and checked. “Oh, I see him. He appears to be getting some takeout. For more than one person. Maybe he has a naked witch waiting in his chic townhouse?”

That wasn’t what Hermione wanted to hear.

“And… he left,” Ginny announced a few seconds later.

Hermione counted to ten and finally came out of her hiding place. 

Ginny had already adapted her ‘Where’s the hippogriff dung?’ expression that years of living with six older brothers had taught her.

The brunette sighed, again. “Remember the Quidditch World Cup finale?” 

“Yes, best sex Harry and I had in a while!” 

Hermione winced. “Spare me the details! I had a… run-in with Draco Malfoy in the pub then.” 

“Yes, I saw him, but we didn’t speak. The two of you looked quite amicable.”

“Maybe, ‘run-in’ was the wrong choice of words.” Why was she so nervous to admit it? It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong. “We kissed each other after the most pleasant evening I’ve had with a man in a very long time.” 

A pause. Then, Ginny asked, a bit confused, “But that sounds quite wonderful…. why are you hiding under a table then?” 

“Because… I don’t know? A reflex?” She r _ eally _ didn’t know. 

“A kiss and run reflex?” Ginny cackled. 

“Yes, something like that!” Hermione chimed in with the laughter. “And the kiss was something of an accident!” 

“‘Accidentally’ kissing Draco Malfoy on Saturday and meeting Terry Boot on Sunday - Hermione, you are the naughty one of us two, not me!” 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without niffizzle, this story would lack a lot of its charm. Thank you for your hard work with my words!

It was Hermione’s first Friday afternoon off in months, and she had been looking forward to it all week. She and Terry had planned to spend it together, first getting a late lunch and then window shopping in Diagon. Peaceful, simple, relaxed. 

But just when she had put her quill down for the day, a paper airplane with a message from Terry had landed on her desk. In messy, hasty script, he had explained that there had been an emergency at Saint Mungo’s he had to handle, something about a potioneer’s flobberworm experiment gone horribly wrong. They would have to reschedule. 

Hermione fully understand his reason, but she had been so excited for her free afternoon, that she decided to treat herself and went out alone. She grabbed an apple from her desk in lieu of lunch and ventured onto Diagon Alley with a spring in her step. 

A visit to Flourish and Blott’s where she assigned to have her recently purchased books delivered to her home address was followed by buying some treats for Crooks at the Owl Emporium, and even after all that, she was feeling daring and entered Quidditch Quality Supplies on her own. She didn’t intend to buy a racing broom or new shin protectors, so she felt confident she could master this visit without her Quidditch crazy extended family. 

She was holding a onesie in burgundy red that read ‘Future House Captain’, debating whether it had the correct size because clothing charms were a fickle thing, when she heard a surprisingly familiar drawl.

“Are congratulations in order, then?” 

“Unless the Wizarding World is due for an immaculate conception, no.” 

She turned towards Draco and saw him grinning at her. Only then, she realised the implications of what she had said and quickly amended, “This is for Jamie, Ginny and Harry’s son.” 

“I thought as much.” He was still grinning, obviously amused by her words. “Though, I like this one way better.” He took another onesie from the shelf and held it in front of him.

This one read, ‘My daddy took a Bludger to the head, says my mommy,’ and Hermione started giggling at its message. At the same time, it occurred to her that it was a good thing that the shop had special wards on the windows preventing people from seeing what was going on inside beyond what was exhibited. What was meant as protection for the many famous Quidditch players who were customers, now made Hermione and Draco shopping for onesies invisible to the public. 

Involuntarily, Hermione laughed again. “Oh my, the press would have a field day if they saw us here.” Upon seeing his questioningly raised eyebrows, she elaborated. “You and me looking at onesies.”

The laugh he released was so loud a few customers turned their heads, but Hermione enjoyed the rich sound.

“Salazar, I wouldn’t want to explain that headline to my mother!” he cackled. “I mean, she wouldn’t go off on a pureblood rant, but I can imagine her going on about ‘responsibility’ and ‘how couldn’t you tell me’ a bit too well.”

“Had a few pregnancy scare moments with past witches, Draco?” she teased, and he shook his head so fiercely that his soft blond hair fell over his eyes. Her hand twitched, automatically wanting to push it back, but thankfully he replied before she had the chance.

“Thankfully not. But I told her I would be out for the afternoon and had to remember stopping by in the Quidditch shop for new mittens. Coming home expecting an heir isn’t exactly the same.”

They both laughed, and Hermione was glad that instead of behaving awkward after their accidental kiss, they could act naturally around each other. 

“So, are you still playing for fun to balance out your boring work as a financial analyst with something exciting?” Hermione asked, curious. 

Harry had previously told Hermione that Draco worked as a brilliant (not his words) financial analyst for the Ministry. Her best friend and the blond sometimes met when it came to the finances of the Department of Law Enforcement. And yet, she and Draco had never crossed paths in the past years.

“We want to keep the Ministry’s funds as full as possible, don’t we?” He was downplaying his role, she knew. According to Harry, Draco was a genius with numbers and was revamping the century old budgeting system of the Ministry with vigour and talent. “Someone has to provide the Galleons so you can keep buying all the pretty books for your dungeon.” 

“It’s not as if I spend the leisurely day reading. I research,” Hermione defended herself. 

Usually, this was where the conversation ended or whoever she was talking to changed topics. Though, this was not the case with Draco. 

“What do you research then?” 

The question took her off guard. She had never had to answer it before. 

“I can’t tell you everything because some of it is top secret,” she responded after a few moments of processing his interest. 

Draco hummed in agreement; he probably knew her position was part of the Department of Mysteries. 

“But it varies,” Hermione continued. “Sometimes, we get requests from the Aurors-” 

“So, you’re still doing Potters homework?” he interrupted, earning himself a glare for his unnecessary retort. 

“Says the man who never learned how to draw a peacock because he didn’t attend kindergarten,” she quipped.

“Touché.” Draco smiled and inclined his head slightly, reminding Hermione of an old fashioned duellist. How adorable. 

Before they could continued their banter, however, Hermione heard the excited squeak of a child, followed by a shove when it forced its way through behind her. Hermione made a surprised noise, lost her balance, and, unexpectedly, threw herself into Draco’s arms. 

* * *

Draco barely had enough time to process what happened before he stretched out his arms. Being who and how he was, he was quite used to witches (and the occasional wizard) throwing themselves at him, though, usually, not literally. 

Suddenly, he found his arms full of Hermione Granger.

“Sorry,” she excused herself, looking up at him and laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Though, instead of stepping back up again, she continued staring at him with those huge, brown eyes he knew weren’t as innocent as they appeared. 

“No problem,” he brought forth with difficulty, not finding it in himself to put the witch back on her own feet. Why should he? She was warm, smelled wonderfully, and had a very pretty smile for him right now. 

Then, he made a decision. He didn’t want their afternoon to end. “Come on, Granger, you must be hypoglycemic if you can’t keep yourself on your feet. Let’s change that.” 

He firmly ignored the voice in his head that he shouldn’t invite a woman for a meal when he had seen her with another man just the other day. Instead, he gently returned her into an upright position, his hands on her waist. For security reasons. 

“I was pushed by that ill-mannered child over there,” -- she pointed at the still squeaking boy who now had his grabby hands all over the new  _ Momentum _ broom -- “and I had an apple for lunch-” she stopped, her arm still extended. “Oh. You are asking if I want to go somewhere for,” -- she checked her wrist watch -- “tea?”

“You’re a bright one, aren’t you?” Draco laughed. “Granger, leave the onesie here for another time and have a coffee or a tea with me to discuss your research a bit further.” 

“I would like that,” she agreed with a nod that made her curls bounce. 

Then, her stomach grumbled loudly. 

“Maybe let’s go somewhere where we can also grab a decent bite. I might be a little hungry, after all.” She sounded a bit embarrassed, but he couldn’t help but find it endearing. 

  
  


* * *

In comfortable silence, the two of them walked down Diagon Alley, until Draco stopped in front of a restaurant.

“I hope this is okay. I fetched take-away from here a while ago for an emergency meeting with Kingsley.”

“Last Saturday?” she asked. 

“How did you know it was last Saturday?” Draco deadpanned.

Hermione shrugged. “Ginny saw you in here.” 

Hermione stepped through the door he held open for her. 

When she passed Draco, he could see that her brow was slightly furrowed and that the tips of her ears had changed the colour a fraction. She hadn’t exactly lied, but she likely wasn’t telling the entire truth either if Draco interpreted her facial expression correctly.

“Am I a recurring element in your and young Mrs Potter’s tea time conversations, or was it the first time I enriched your usual chattering?” he drawled aristocratically and caused what he had intended: she started laughing loudly and thus garnered the attention of the waitress.

While they were led to a table in the back of the cafe that granted a view to the back garden, he casually placed a hand over the small of her back, not quite touching, but close enough that she had to notice it when she moved.

Naturally, he continued his display of manners by pulling the chair out for her. When they had finished ordering tea and sandwiches, he couldn’t help but prod a bit.

“Well, you haven’t answered my question, have you?”

She shoved a curl behind her ear forcefully, making it clear to Draco that she wasn’t keen on responding. “Ginny and I don’t have ‘tea conversations.’ These days, I am lucky when she has time for any form of adult talk.”

“Slytherin. Malfoy. Redeemed Bad Boy,” he counted off his fingers, a smirk tugging on the edges of his lips. “Pity party won’t work on me, Miss War Hero.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “You’re like a hippogriff with its prey, aren’t you?”

He shrugged and hoped it came off nonchalantly. 

“Fine. Ginny and I were having brunch together when  _ you _ fetched take-away for that supposedly super important meeting of yours that I want to hear everything about.” She actually sounded accusatory. 

“Granger…” He chuckled. 

“I happened to dip under the table because our encounter in the pub threw me off, and I had no idea how I would have reacted had you seen me,” she blurted out, the blush now covering her skin down to her neckline. 

Not that he paid attention. He was too busy smirking in male pride and boyish glee.

“Do you find that funny?” She glared at him.

“A bit.” He tried to school his features into a mask of indifference but failed spectacularly and let out a snort. He knew her well enough that he decided against continuing the topic further. 

“To be fair, the meeting with Kingsley wasn’t as spectacular as I expected.” 

The frown in Hermione’s faced vanished instantly and was replaced with her all too familiar curiosity. 

“He had received an owl late Friday evening and asked if I had time to go over some budget plans with him. No emergency involved, just two workaholics pushing numbers back and forth.”

“Is he finally supporting the Centaur census?” She leaned forward, and Draco enjoyed that he had her full attention.

“No, but we made a budget plan for a Dragon reserve in Wales. The Minister wants Charles Weasley to head it.”

“Interesting.” She leaned back in her chair, thinking.

“Interesting? I’m not going to lie, I thought you would be more impressed.” Gone was his chance to intrigue her with insider information. 

“Oh, I know Charlie. But he hasn’t mentioned that he might come back to Britain.”

_ “Charlie? _ Let me guess… he’s a Quidditch player? Seeker, even?” 

So had Charlie Weasley been the Male Voice at the antique bookmarket? No, that couldn’t be. Judging their conversation, he had been a Healer. 

“Yes, of- What? Draco Malfoy!” she scowled mockingly, “Believe it or not, I don’t have a thing for every former Quidditch player!” 

“What with your track record…”

Draco wanted to ask about the man she had met, but that would have made him seem too curious. So when the waitress brought them their tea and sandwiches, he steered their conversation away from anything personal to equally interesting topics: her opinion on the causes of illegal potions trafficking, whether or not she deemed the new Muggle Studies curriculum at Hogwarts to be modern enough, and how the repertoire of the Ministry’s books on ancient cultures should be restocked. 

When the sandwiches were eaten and the teacups had been refilled, Hermione smiled at him from over her cup. The late afternoon sun hit her brown hair; the curls reflected shades of chestnut, gold, and amber. Draco felt his insides constrict. The way she looked at him, the openness and warmth of her gaze -- it called out to him. 

Yet he wouldn’t put one toe over the line of modesty if she had a boyfriend. Though, he wondered whether the connection they had formed was more than friendly from the moment they had met in the Three Broomsticks for the World Cup finale. 

“Are you seeing someone?” it finally broke out of Draco, no longer able to stand not knowing the answer. 

She blinked, obviously not having expected this question. 

“Well, I have been out for coffee with someone and for a visit to a book market, but we’re not an item or madly in love or something. I don’t know what will come of it yet.” She shrugged. 

He was strangely relieved and felt his shoulders relax. This wasn’t the straight ‘no’ he had hoped for, but he had already known she had someone else salivating after her. At least she was honest, which he appreciated. 

“And you?” she asked. 

She took another gulp from her tea. For Draco, the gesture revealed a certain amount of nervousness. 

“I’m on the ‘dating scene,’ as my mother calls it,” he admitted, trying to sound nonchalant. 

“You sound like Ron!” she laughed.

“What? Are you insulting me, you insolent witch?” His voice was carefully free from bite and halfway flirty when he said that. 

“Well, he also says he is on the dating scene,” Hermione explained too casually, and he was a bit disappointed she didn’t react to his teasing. “But in reality, he is looking for a woman to fulfil the role of his wife and mother of his children. That was why we separated.” 

Draco could sense there was more to her story, but it wasn’t the time or place to ask her that. Also, he didn’t want to ruin the flirty atmosphere by bringing up one of her exes. 

Instead, he chuckled. “A wife? No, thank you. Not yet, at least. I’m redirecting all of my mother’s energy in that department to Pansy and her upcoming wedding.” He made a shooing gesture, demonstrating that he was pushing such notions far away from him. 

“So... another witch every other weekend?” she inquired, openly curious now.

He pretended to be scandalised. “Hermione, really. Last weekend, I had  _ two _ if one believes the tabloids,” he drawled arrogantly, “but the second one was especially annoying. She pretended to be surprised to see me, and then I didn’t even get a proper goodnight kiss or to see her home.” 

“Awww, sorry I had to prevent ‘The Saviour of the Wizarding World’ from drowning in the Finnigan’s pool.” 

“So you played nanny for three adult men.” 

“Four men and one woman. Fleur and Bill also were there,” she retorted. 

“Aha, an orgy then.” He smirked and could see her blush prettily under his gaze.

She reached over the tabletop, smacking his hand playfully. “You wish.”

He enclosed her hand with his, and the simple act of holding her hand baffled him. Such an innocent gesture, but it was a level of intimacy that wasn’t comparable to anything, maybe not even to sex. 

Hermione didn’t pull her hand away, neither when they switched to other topics, nor when the waitress had to ask them to leave because the restaurant had to close and prepare for the dinner guests. 

That was why, when strolling down Diagon Alley towards the nearest Apparition point, she was still holding his hand. Not that he minded. Her hand in his was a physical reminder of how much times had changed. For the better. 

Her smile, beautifully adjourned to her face without any specific reason, didn’t waver or vanish when he interrupted their comfortable silence and asked, hopefully, “Do I get a proper goodbye kiss this time?” 

Draco couldn’t believe his luck when she leaned in. But instead of pressing her lips to his and causing a storm in his mind, she breathed into his ear, whispering, “Maybe next time.” 

Then, she Apparated away, leaving him standing in the dark alley, a thousand times more lonely than before, but still… pacified?

With a happy edge to it, he spun on his heel, transporting himself to Malfoy Manor, not even slightly caring about how late he was for the customary dinner with his mother. 

“Are you alright, Draco?” Narcissa asked him the second he stepped foot into the dining room. 

“Of course, Mother. I apologise for being late. I got held up.”

Narcissa’s icy blue eyes scanned his face agan, her lips quirking into a minuscule smile. 

“What was the ‘lady’s’ name? And was she worth her money?”

Honestly, he sometimes forgot this giving, caring, and overall lovely woman he called his mother had been sorted into Slytherin.

“Why do you assume I am late because of some woman?” 

“So I am to believe that Draco Lucius Malfoy, the formidable wizard I conceived, pressed through my pelvis after twenty hours of labour, whom I raised to adulthood,” -- she made a pause for dramatic effect -- “was simply out, window shopping? Alone? ”

“I didn’t say that.” He grinned at her wicked sense of humour, knowing that the flat answer would infuriate her further. 

“Well it’s either that or your hunt was finally successful, and you will bring some worthy young witch home soon to introduce to your mother?” 

“Don’t start planning another wedding,” he replied indignantly, not outright lying, but also not ready to share his… ‘crush,’ for lack of a better word, on Hermione Granger, of all witches. 

The bait worked. 

“Salazar, Draco, do you know how massive the planning for Pansy’s wedding is? Her fiancé can’t even understand that the colour scheme has to be coordinated with the interior designer-”

Draco sat through his mother’s rant, unaffected and smiling, his hand still warm where Hermione had touched him. He nodded sometimes, happy his mother invested so much energy on Pansy’s wedding. But at the same time, he wondered how he could make it possible to see Hermione again. 

There was only a very small voice in his head, sounding like his beloved godfather, telling him he was turning into a giant sap. 

  
  


* * *

“Don’t look at me like that! It’s not as if I planned staying away for so long.”

Hermione’s companion made displeased noises. 

“Come on, Crooks, it’s only five minutes past your usual feeding time!” 

Yes, Hermione Granger was having a discussion with her half-kneazle. Totally normal behaviour for a pet owner. 

The talk, which was more of a monologue by the time she had filled Crookshank’s bowl, continued. After all, Hermione had a lot to say about her day. 

“So, you remember I told you about Draco, don’t you?” 

Crooks purred between munches, and Hermione knew this meant he was listening.

“I saw him today. Really, it wasn’t planned, and we kind of… got caught up. Like that one time when you didn’t return for days after you met that beautiful cat of number ten, Grimmauld Place.” 

Crooks purred again. Her above-standard-intelligence pet had somehow learned how to knock over the Floo powder pot to Floo over to the Potter’s house. That circumstance alone had made Hermione want to research the inner workings and magic of Floos. 

Her pet blinked at her, downing the last bits of his evening meal.

“Yes, I know. I originally had a date with Terry. But, and don’t judge me, meeting Draco was quite different. Terry is... a friendly conversation, while Draco is... slamming a book on the table after Apparating home for said book just to prove you’re right.” 

She didn’t tell Crooks what she had  _ almost _ done that one or two times while bantering with Draco; that was too embarrassing to say out loud. 

Hermione poured herself a huge glass of red wine and sat down on her couch, still chattering about almost every aspect of her day. 

“I have no idea why this is happening to me. Two men are interested in me at the same time. Or I think Draco is?” Not being that much of an expert in reading people, she was still pretty certain she and Draco had developed some kind of flirty dynamic. “I mean, Terry is really nice, and intelligent, and good looking… but Draco is simply…  _ more  _ of all that. He’s definitely changed a lot since Hogwarts. But we all have, haven’t we?” 

She patted the soft fur on top of Crookshank’s head. By now, the feline had hopped onto the couch next to her and was pushing his skull against her thigh.

Deep in thought, Hermione switched on the TV. She found watching documentaries very relaxing usually, and most of the time she even learned something. 

A documentary about New Zealand’s fascinating geography was running, but all she could think of was how much she had enjoyed herself during her unexpected meeting with Draco. He certainly wasn’t the easiest person to be around, but neither was she. 

She knew that she could be bossy, demanding, and even vicious when she wanted, and even though she had tamed some aspects since their teenage years, that was who she was. This was something she couldn’t change, just as like how Draco couldn’t change that he was an arrogant and snarky man. But, his charming and humorous and downright sexy sides were something she wanted to explore.

But on the other side, there was Terry. Terry, whom she got smoothly along with. Whom she didn’t want to betray or mislead, even though they weren’t technically in some kind of relationship. Did they even have a good foundation, a solid chemistry to build a relationship on? He certainly wanted to try it. But did she?

Next came a documentary about phylogenetics and evolution. She felt like she should take notes. After all, there was still no one who had researched the creation of magic and considered the genetic aspects of it. Someone  _ had _ to. 

But not her. Or at least not this evening, it seemed. 

Because she found her thoughts circling back to the two men in her orbit. Hermione had left the napkin with the peacock on the tea table next to her couch; taking it and calling him would surely equal opening the box of Pandora, wouldn’t it?

The more she thought about it, the more she felt like lifting the lid. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybeeee leave a review if you like this?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's been too long. Sorry. Buuuut the fifth chapter (including a short epilogue) is already written.
> 
> Thank you for supporting this little story! And a big THANK YOU to my beta, niffizzle, who takes my mistakes and chaos with endless knowledge and patience - all remaining mistakes are mine alone. Also a huge hug to mhcalamas who read this, squealed, and encouraged me to write an epilogue. If you haven't already, check these writers' stories!

“And the book… the book,” Ron wheezed, “ate your cardigan? Really?” More wheezing followed. And it wasn’t pretty when Weasleys wheezed. 

Hermione was concerned he’d choke on his sandwich. Or attract the attention of the whole restaurant they were having tea in. 

“Yes, Ron,” she spoke in a hushed voice. “It ate my cardigan. Along with everything that was in it.” 

“Anything important?” Ron asked. 

“Nothing work related, no.” Hermione paused, reflecting if she should say something. “But there was a telephone number that was important to me. Or might have been.” 

Her friend, now less red in the face than on his head, peered at her curiously. Most people called him thick, but Ron was more aware of the moods around him than anyone else Hermione knew. “Something private then? Boot doesn’t seem like the type of person to use a telly-anything.” 

She felt a blush creeping over her cheeks that didn’t help at all. 

Ron lit up in amusement. “Oh-ho, has our little Hermione become adventurous, and just one wizard isn’t good enough for her anymore?I thought I’d never see the day!” 

“Ronald!” she chided, laughing. How she hated and loved his perceptiveness! “You make it sound as if I have changed from a nun to a slut with multiple men at her beck and call.” 

Ron gripped her hand over the table. “You know I am just teasing.” 

She giggled, squeezing his hand as confirmation. 

“But seriously, there’s more than one?” he asked with genuine curiosity. 

She pondered, searching for how to word it. “I don’t know yet. There’s someone. And there’s chemistry. He makes me laugh.” Hermione shrugged. “Terry is nice, don’t get me wrong, but I’m beginning to think that we would be more a couple of convenience.” 

“Like us?” 

“More intellectual, but yes.” 

They grinned at each other. Their failed attempt at a romance had become something akin to an inside joke between them, even if it still stung sometimes. But that was more a ‘why did we ever think it was a good idea’ kind of pain. 

“Will you tell me who the other guy is?” 

“Not yet, no. There’s nothing of actual significance between us yet. Just flirting and some innocent, chance meetings. And now this vicious, twelfth century book ate his phone number!” 

“Hermione Granger, being angry at a book. This guy must be special. Or very well hung.” 

“Ronald Bilius Weasley!” She threw her muffin at Ron, who caught it effortlessly. With that, their conversation switched to other topics: Ron’s latest conquest (Daphne Greengrass, of all witches), their work, the continuously expanding Weasley family (Bill and Fleur were expecting again - a potions accident, as Fleur had told Hermione under her breath).

Strolling through Diagon Alley after saying goodbye to Ron, Hermione felt so very grounded. Originally, she had planned to call Draco that afternoon, which was why she had put his number in the pocket of her cardigan. Now, she was still miffed at the book. But at the same time, she felt… elated. 

Elated that maybe Draco was the right wizard for her. And that things would find a way to play out themselves. 

Terry, on the other hand… he didn’t evoke the same emotions as the wizard that once was so mean to her. His eyes weren’t the ones that looked at her in her dreams. Those were plain, sinful, vicious, and oh-so-characteristically grey. 

She needed to sort things out with Terry, she realised now.

Soon. 

* * *

However, the next time she saw Terry was a few days later at a Saint Mungo’s function raising Galleons for the research of genetically transferred maladies. 

Hermione, believing in the cause itself, had agreed to accompany Terry on their very first coffee date, and she still wanted to show her face there. This was the kind of function where money or fame were everything, so she breathed in deeply, slipped into some expensive gown and make-up, and smiled for the flashing cameras. 

One hour into the event, Hermione was bored out out of her mind. She was sipping champagne while Terry talked to some colleague and she calculated several options on how to to talk to him alone. Reviewing the basics of it (“I like you, but I can’t imagine myself falling in love with you” and so on), she startled when she heard a voice drawl next to her.

“I never pegged you as a champagne person.” 

“Draco!” she exclaimed, surprised, elated, and mortified at the same time. 

She wanted to throw her arms around him. Though, the event was too formal for actions like that, so she smiled at him instead and received a smile in return. Only then did she look at him properly and have to fight a blush. He looked dashing in his traditionally cut dark grey robes, the colour making his eyes stand out more than usual. 

“What are you even doing here?” She tried to gloss over the fact that her feelings were presently causing a ruckus inside her.

“Oh, Draco!“ he impersonated her in a highly feminine sounding voice. “Then you say, ‘Lovely to see you! My evening has just become interesting!’ And I answer with a hand kiss and say, ‘Good evening, Hermione. Such a pleasant surprise. You’re looking extraordinarily beautiful tonight.” Draco took her hand and breathed a formal kiss on the back of it. 

Hermione didn’t know which finally made her succumb to a full body blush - the way he had chastised her or how his eyes bore into hers while doing so. 

Too fast, the moment was gone and Draco stood up straight again, his hand letting go of hers. Grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, he continued, apparently unfazed, “To answer your initial question, I am here because my best friend asked me to. She happens to be engaged to one of the healers.” He gestured towards Anthony Goldstein who seemed to be in a meaningful conversation with Terry just a few feet away. 

Hermione felt an irrational wave of irritation because her supposed date to the function didn’t even notice that she was talking to someone else. Not that it mattered except that she found it rude. 

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” Hermione focused her attention on Draco again. “Is Pansy the friend you’re talking about?” 

“Yes.” He smiled, his expression soft. “She’s like a sister to me these days. I couldn’t say no when she asked me to support her future husband’s hospital.” A slight smirk appeared on his face. “Even if said wizard has once been sorted into Ravenclaw.” 

“So… the Adaptable and Most Bauble House of Malfoy practically adopts a Ravenclaw into their lines?” she challenged him. 

“Maybe the House needs a bit of renovation, such as opening some barricaded doors and letting fresh air in?” he returned, fixing her with a meaningful glance that turned her insides to a quivering mess. 

She was about to fire back some clever remark about how fresh air could also mean a tornado destroying the entire House. Instead, she felt herself being whisked away, his fingers looped loosely around her wrist.

“Let’s dance, shall we?” 

Her feet followed him, but her mind had trouble keeping up. When he expertly brought her into a dancing pose, her body obliged him, and just like that, they swayed to the music. She enjoyed Draco’s proximity, even though she could sense that he was somewhat tense as her fingers on his shoulders felt rigid muscle underneath the fabric of his robes.

“I am capable of operating a mobile phone, in case you didn’t know.” 

Hermione was surprised at Draco’s sudden words. That wasn’t typical dance conversation. He could’ve asked who exactly she was there with. He could’ve asked why she was there. He could’ve talked about the goddamn weather. Instead, he opted to make a typical ‘hidden-meaning-because-man-and-Slytherin-and-all-that’ statement. 

“You’re asking why I haven’t called you?” She felt more than saw the answering nod he gave, for the dance moves had them stepping so close to each other that she could feel his breath against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “I am very much aware of your abilities to use a phone, Draco. But a book ate your number.” The last words forced their way out in true Gryffindor fashion. Not elegant, but honest. 

Immediately, Draco’s shoulders relaxed but tensed again when he laughed - laughed so loudly that the couples swaying around them threw a scandalised glare at the Malfoy scion who was usually so well behaved in public. “I wouldn’t believe that story if you weren’t Hermione Granger,” he stated, laughter still in his eyes. ”You really are one special witch.”

His innocent laughter, his open, honest expression, his wicked humour and sharp intellect - all these things coalesced in this precise moment, and the outcome was irresistible. 

Enough was enough. Hermione gave into her earlier impulse and threw her arms around him, enveloping him in a tight embrace. “Thank you, Draco. You are special to me, too.” Her words weren’t exactly a reply to his, but when she felt his hands gliding over her shoulder blades and one settling on her neck to press her even closer to him, she knew that it was the perfect thing to say. 

One gentle and not-at-all accidental kiss to the outer shell of her ear.

She stilled in his arms.

Another even softer press of his lips to her cheek at the farthest point from her mouth. 

Hermione breathed out heavily with a contented sigh, an encouragement to continue. 

How much did she desire to turn her head and finish this game with a victorious kiss to his lips?

“Draco, I…” she whispered.

He leaned his forehead against her temple, immediately stopping his advances. “You are here with someone, aren’t you?” 

“Technically, I am,” she answered, her heart and pulse stuttering. 

“I should’ve asked that some time ago.” He sounded as disappointed as she felt. 

“I could’ve said something.” 

“You could tell him…” he trailed off, seeming not to find an adequate option.

They were still holding on to each other, his hands loosely on her waist. 

“What is going to happen now?” he asked. 

“Excuse me, please,” was all she said before leaving him standing in the middle of the dance floor. But now, she was full of resolve. 

She had spotted Terry looking at her from over Anthony’s shoulder, his expression neither jealous nor surprised, almost neutral. And that was what had set her in motion. Before she reached Terry, however, she had a sudden insight. 

She stopped and took a clean linen napkin from a table. A quick spell and she had summoned a pen to scribble on it. With a short, “For you!” and a quick peck on the cheek (the kind which was acceptable for friends in public) and a beaming smile, she handed the napkin to Draco. Then, she returned to her original path. 

“Terry,” she addressed him as soon as she stood in front of him. “Let’s go somewhere to talk, please?

* * *

Draco stared at the napkin in his hand. 

` _ The Quaffle is in your pitch now _ ’ it read, followed by a series of numbers. Hermione’s phone number, undoubtedly. 

With what felt like a silly grin, he finally left the dance floor and sat down at the bar. Ordering a double Firewhisky, he almost toasted to himself. He would call her. 

Soon. 

He sat there for about thirty minutes, having a very pleasant time chatting to Pansy about wedding nonsense despite following very little of it for half of their conversation. The other half, he contemplated where  _ she _ had gone. 

Probably to sort out things with the wizard who accompanied her to the function. Hermione wasn’t the type of witch who played a double game. She had class. Not the type of class that was defined by manners and gowns and gems, but the kind that came with a beautiful personality. It had taken him quite some years to discern the two types. 

Then, he overheard a conversation between Anthony, who stood next to Pansy now, and a colleague of his. 

“Have you seen Terry? I wanted to talk with him about this patient of mine.” 

“He already left,” Pansy’s fiance answered. “Saw him a few minutes ago with Granger. Looks like he’s finally getting some tonight.” He chuckled dirtily. “At least she clung quite heavily on him, and he almost carried her through the Floo.” 

The temperature in Draco’s intestines sunk below freezing point. 

That couldn’t be true, could it? 

The tumbler in his hand, the glass still warm from the burst of happiness that had made him order it, shattered into thousand pieces. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the final chapter of this story. It was so much fun writing it. This, as you know, was prompted by sleepygrimm - a wonderful friend, kind spirit, and really talented artist. She's a blessed soul in this sometimes rocky fandom. Niffizzle is my beta - she helps me keeping me sane and calm, and I can't thank her enough for all the hard work she puts into my writing. Mhcalamas helped me answering the most important question: epilogue or no epilogue?
> 
> Thank you for reading, reviewing, following!

Hermione sat on her sofa, Crookshanks purring on her lap. Her legs were extended beside her on the sofa cushions, and her ankle was still sore. After she had taken a  _ Diffindo _ to it in a skirmish with a Death Eater during the war, it was prone to accidents and difficult to heal. She thought back to the previous weekend, the evening of the function. 

* * *

It had been so easy to come clean with Terry, to tell him about how she felt, or rather how she  _ didn’t _ feel about him. What made it even easier had been his reaction. 

No trace of bitterness, no bad words. 

Just relief. 

He had said, “I saw this coming, I think. It was easy to be with you, to talk to you. I had fun, but-” 

“-No butterflies?” she had suggested. 

Terry had laughed. “No. No butterflies, not even caterpillars.” He had paused, leaning back in an old armchair. They had chosen what seemed to be a storage room for unneeded furniture for their chat. “We should have been a perfect match. Theoretically,” he had continued calmly. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself. But you’ve never looked at me the same way you looked at Malfoy tonight.” 

Hermione had blushed, not knowing where to look. 

“Is it that obvious? I swear it wasn’t intentional, and there was only an accidental kiss until today, and-” 

“Hermione,” Terry had interrupted her. “Since when is falling in love intentional? Since when do we choose the ones we fall in love with?” 

He was right, she had realised. With Ron, she had tried to choose. With Terry, she had tried to force it. But it didn't work that way. Instead, a chance meeting at the Quidditch World Cup had happened. 

“Wait,” she had gasped, a revelation falling into place. “It’s not just me, then? You also have feelings for someone else?” 

Terry had fidgeted with the sleeves of his robes. “Yes,” he had finally admitted. “And I have been fighting it for too long. Don’t make the same mistake, Hermione.” 

She had promised him she wouldn’t, and they had agreed to stay friends and meant it.

When they had been on their way to leave the storage room, Hermione had tripped, over a broom of all things, and broken her ankle. 

Thankfully, Terry had let her cling to him for support as they navigated back through the function to the Floo so he could bring her home, where he healed her ankle and left her on the very couch she was sitting on now. 

* * *

Between the weekend and this Friday, she had barely had enough time to dwell on the events of the evening, didn’t have time to hope for a call from Draco. She might have caught herself staring at her mobile several times, but then she had to concentrate on her work again. 

Harry and his team had found what could be the library of the Rosier family, and some books and trinkets in there were downright vicious. And venomous. 

To sum it up: Hermione really had been busy the past week and only now finally had time to relax on her sofa for a bit. The documentary currently running on TV was a marathon about the history of the Roman Empire. She let herself be lulled into the dramatic story of the Roman-Egyptian relations when the bell signalling a visitor by Floo rang. 

With effort, she transferred Crooks to the now empty sofa and carefully hobbled to her fireplace without putting too much weight on her left ankle. 

A flick of her wand opened the connection, though she held it poised, ready to be wielded, because she had no idea who would appear. The Potters and Weasleys, the only people who Floo’d to her regularly, always called beforehand. 

Then, the green flames roared, and a few seconds later, a wizard materialized. 

“Draco,” she greeted him, utterly surprised. 

“Hello, Hermione.”

He brushed the soot from his shirt but appeared still quite ruffled, making him look like an elegant bird of prey that had an accident with a power line. His hair was in perfect disarray and his clothes wrinkled, but the wicked smile he bore was the cherry on the top of the Malfoy sundae. 

“What the bloody hell has happened to you?” she demanded.

He stepped out of the fireplace but didn’t step any further into the room. “Intense exchange of words. How’s Terry doing?” 

The question came conversationally but was so out of the blue that Hermione only gaped. 

“What?” 

“Answer the question. Please, I need to hear it from your mouth.” He was still smiling, taking a step closer to her. There was a glint in his grey eyes that nudged her into answering his brazen question. 

“Terry and I decided we’re better off as friends.” 

Draco’s smile broadened. “I know,” he said, smugly. “He told me after I had grabbed him by the robes and tackled him to the next wall.” 

“Pardon?” She couldn’t believe it. A helpless laugh escaped her. 

Draco took another step towards her. “Okay, I saw him with someone else than you, and I only yelled at him a bit, asked him how he could besmirch your honor in that way and threatened to hex his balls off.” 

“And then?” She ran her eyes over his body, checking for burns or hex marks. She didn’t find any, meaning they hadn’t duelled. 

“He explained that you parted ways after the Saint Mungo’s function and how he brought you home because you broke your ankle. That was why Goldstein had seen the two of you together.” 

At first, his words didn’t make any sense, but then her mind connected the dots. 

“You thought he and I had left to spend the night together! Merlin, Draco!” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “But we didn’t, of course.” This time, she stepped closer to him, her hands gliding up his arms and coming to rest on his shoulders. 

“No, you didn’t. But I  _ thought _ so. Anyway, I am allowed to do this now.” The last words were spoken in a whisper, for he was so close to her now that their lips nearly touched, their breaths intermingling. “I am allowed, am I not?” 

She nodded and giggled when he over-exaggerated by actually holding her chin so their lips could meet purposefully. 

It was perfect. Warm, and soft, and leaving a trail of sparks behind her eyelids. Finally. 

And there was no one and nothing that would stop them this time.

One thing lead to the other, and the next time they talked to each other was in her bed, naked, and sweaty. 

She traced imaginary runes with her fingers over the light blond hair on his chest. “Why didn’t you call me? That would have cleared up all of the misunderstandings.”

He drew her in closer, sighing blissfully. “Do you remember how I told you that I occasionally meet for a round of Quidditch with Theo, Blaise, and some others on the pitch of Malfoy Manor?” 

She hummed, eyes half closed. Draco scraped his fingers over her scalp and reduced her to pudding in the process. Still, she listened. “Did they talk you out of it?” 

“No, that was before I met Boot with that other person, snogging in broad daylight. I was still sulking, and flying always takes my mind off things.” 

She smiled against his skin. 

“Unfortunately, I had the napkin with your number and my mobile phone in my robes when I flew a side roll and everything I had in my pockets landed on the grass.” 

“Did the phone break?” 

“I wouldn’t know. The peacocks ate everything, including my pocket watch.” 

She couldn’t suppress her laughter any longer. “Do you think it was their way to show you that they miss you?” Hermione tilted her head back, looking into Draco’s eyes. They were bright and filled with mirth. 

“Are you poking fun at me, witch?” He pinched her bare bottom, making her squeal. “After all, I caught the Snitch! Aren’t you you proud of me?” 

She pulled his head down so she could reach his lips. “I am. And still, I feel we are victorious. Like we both caught the proverbial Snitch.” 

Draco hummed in agreement, adding, “You know that this happened in 1985?” But he didn’t explain further. He was too busy devouring her.

* * *

_ Epilogue - about four years later _

“You can’t do that,” Draco remarked, pointing at the small onesie in Hermione’s hands. 

She leaned back into his embrace, her back against his front. “Why not?” 

“Because, first of all, this is a Word Cup game, not a baby party. And don’t you think that ‘Future Potions Master’ is a bit over the top for the little one? We don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl!” He whispered into her ear, his arms around her middle. 

Begrudgingly, Hermione agreed to the gender part. As for the baby party, however, she couldn’t stop herself. “But I think this present could stop Ginny’s ranting.” 

That was something Draco desperately wished for. So he released his girlfriend from his arms and let her go to eight months pregnant Ginny Potter. The witch hadn’t stopped whining because not only could she not stand upright for longer than a few minutes to enjoy the final game of this year’s Quidditch World Cup (Brazil against Andorra), but also because the alcohol-free butterbeer apparently tasted like gnome piss mixed with flobberworm juice. 

Leaning against the bar, he greeted Potter. 

“Nervous?” the Head Auror asked. 

“I am a Malfoy; we don’t get nervous. Though,  _ you _ should be as your wife looks ready to pop any minute now.” 

“It’s our third child in five years. After the birth is what I am dreading!” 

Draco snorted. Over the past several years, he had come to appreciate Potter’s dry sense of humour. 

“Don’t laugh. Who knows when you are going to find yourself in this situation, having to appease your pregnant wife.” 

“Maybe never, as you very well know,” Draco deadpanned. 

Hermione hadn’t made a secret of her infertility. Not to her close friends, not to him. They were happy as it was, having moved into a huge manor that once belonged to one of Narcissa’s eccentric aunts, both Draco and Hermione with high profile jobs. Of course, they had talked about children, and they wanted to try for them when the time came. Draco found the Muggle methods a bit foreign, but he definitely wanted to explore them, even if they had no guarantee. But at the moment, they simply enjoyed being with each other, being by themselves. No pressure involved, but no contraceptives either. 

“Ready?” Potter asked, and Draco breathed in deeply. 

“I am.” 

He turned, searched for his witch in the crowd of Quidditch watchers, and found her (as planned) in an animated discussion with Weasley, Terry Boot, and the latter’s boyfriend, the very one he had found Boot ‘cheating’ on Hermione with almost four years ago. He gave Weasley a slight nod, and the red haired wizard playfully pushed Hermione in the direction of the bar, telling her, as Draco knew, to “do her women’s duty and bring the men and herself some whiskey.” The blond wizard saw Hermione give her friend a hard but teasing shove, and started towards the bar nonetheless. When she reached the bar, she waved her hand to get someone’s attention. 

That was Draco’s signal to set his feet into motion. With a clap on his shoulder from Potter, he made his way through the crowd. 

“Hi,” Hermione said to the man behind the bar. 

Despite having no other customers around, the young man ignored her. After all, that’s what he had been paid for. 

“Hey! I’d like to order something!” Hermione repeated, now louder.

No reaction. 

Draco knew she was about to huff and stomp when he spoke, carefully infusing his voice with a drawl, “Oh my, is this pub so popular now that it can risk not serving Hermione Granger, War Heroine?” 

The brunette threw her head around and immediately smiled at him. 

“I’m so sorry, Miss Granger, I got distracted,” the barkeeper said before Hermione could respond to the question. 

She tore her eyes away from the wizard next to her. “What on earth is happening here?” she asked, flabbergasted. 

“Whatever you order, it’s on the house,” the barkeep said placatorily, just as he was assigned to say.

“In that case, two of your best whiskeys neat, please,” Draco ordered. 

The barkeeper flitted away to fetch the beverages, and Hermione turned her attention back to the wizard next to her, her eyes wide. “Draco! This is-”

“Yes,” Draco jumped in. “This is a replication of the last World Cup finale and the evening that started… well, the evening that started  _ us. _ ” He pushed aside his nervosity, continuing, “And that is when you next say, ‘My, my. Draco. This is truly a surprise‘.” 

Recognition shone in her eyes, and she added, “And then you say, ‘It is. And what happened to ‘Malfoy’?” 

The waiter placed two glasses on the bar, but Hermione didn’t even spare them a glance. 

“Whatever you want to happen to this name, Hermione,” Draco voiced, now serious. “It can be your new last name, if you choose it to be.” He pushed one of the glasses into her hands. 

Hermione glanced at the tumbler now in her hands. 

Draco knew she had spotted the ring inside it when she gasped. And he also knew that she identified this whole arranged event as a proposal. Especially when she threw a glance sideways and saw Potter, his wife, Weasley, Terry, and Terry’s boyfriend looking away utterly conspicuously. 

“What do you say, Hermione. Will you marry me?” Draco’s voice trembled as he asked the question. 

“Does the Snitch bring 150 points?” Hermione laughed and threw her arms around him. “Of course, I will marry you!”

Draco kissed her, fully on the lips, in the middle of the Three Broomsticks. Because, truly, he felt like he had personally won the Quidditch World Championship. 


End file.
